Chapter 4

Our fifth day at the estate was also my third anniversary with Nathan.

Two days earlier, I'd checked with him by text. Still on for Saturday?

His reply came almost immediately. Definitely. Three o'clock at Adrian's restaurant. Reservation's made.

I kept going back to read it.

Saturday morning, I unpacked the dress from my eighteenth-birthday party with extra care. It was the nicest dress I had, the only one that felt special enough. I balanced my compact against a stack of paper towels and used it to do my makeup. There was no other mirror in the closet.

For half an hour, I worked on looking like someone a man would make an effort for.

My brother's restaurant sat by the river, all white linen and polished glass. The manager knew me right away.

“Miss Moretti. Right this way.”

He seated me at the window, at the best table. I ordered my Americano and Nathan's usual iced latte.

Then I settled in to wait.

His ice disappeared. A waiter brought more, and that melted too.

My calls went to voicemail. He didn't answer my texts.

Three times, the maître d' offered to bring me something to eat. Three times, I explained that someone was joining me. He nodded more sympathetically with each visit.

The servers were exchanging glances behind the bar.

I could imagine the story already: the Don's daughter, left waiting alone in her brother's own restaurant. By the next day, it would be all over the family.

Three hours passed.

At six, a message finally came through.

“Baby, I'm so sorry. Grace wanted to see her father's grave today. She was really upset, and I couldn't send her by herself. Can we do this another day? I'll make it up to you.”

He'd attached a picture.

Thomas's headstone was black marble. Grace stood before it with her head lowered; Nathan stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder. In the late sun, their shadows met across the grass.

A stranger seeing that photo would have thought they were together.

I stared at it for a full three minutes.

Then I lifted my cold Americano and swallowed it all. The bitterness left my tongue numb.

When I requested the bill, the manager refused. “Your brother owns the place, Miss Moretti. Of course there's no charge.”

I paid for both coffees and left.

The next morning, Nathan arrived at the house with red roses.

They were wrapped beautifully, the sort of bouquet you'd have to arrange in advance. For a moment, my heart lifted.

He didn't stop when he saw me. He went straight along the hall, tapped the door marked Grace, and let himself in.

“These are for you,” he said inside. “Yesterday was hard. You deserve something to make you smile.”

I braced a hand on the wall. On my other hand, my nails dug into my palm.

I was still in the hall when he emerged.

“Nathan.”

He paused, briefly looking as though he'd been caught doing something.

“Our anniversary was yesterday.”

He struck his forehead with his palm. “Damn it. I knew there was something. Claire, I'm sorry. I promise I'll do something for us.”

“But you didn't forget her flowers.”

“I passed a florist, that's all. It wasn't a big deal.”

“You've been with me three years. You've never brought me any.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

Then the regret disappeared from his expression. I recognized what took its place: he was tired of dealing with me.

“You really want to have this argument? She cried at her dad's grave all afternoon. I bought flowers to help her feel better, and now I'm the bad guy? You're her older sister. Try acting like it.” He dropped his voice. “Besides, your father specifically told me to take care of Grace.”

Adrian opened his door and came out barefoot. Without asking a single question, he moved to Nathan's side.

“Knock it off, Claire. Thomas lost his life rescuing me. If Grace gets a little extra love from this family, she deserves it. What are you even competing over?”

I didn't want to compete with her.

I wanted my boyfriend to tell me whether our three years together meant anything to him.

No one there believed that deserved an answer.

I gave up trying to get one and locked myself back in the storage room.

On the floor, leaning against the mattress, I opened my contacts.

For three years, his entry had read Nathan ☀️.

First I removed the sun.

I watched his name for another moment. Then I deleted that too, leaving only the phone number.

I'd called him my sunshine, and he had so rarely even looked my way.

At dinner, while nobody was watching, Grace leaned over and transferred a slice of veal from her plate to mine.

“Don't be upset with him,” she whispered. “He didn't mean to hurt you. I promise.”

She truly believed it. Her face made that clear.

For a moment, I couldn't get air into my lungs.

She hadn't tried to take everything I had. But now that she had it, she could hand me back one little piece, and everyone would call her generous.

She didn't even understand why it hurt.

That night, I checked my bank balance.

$9,600.

I'd earned all of it myself: tutoring from freshman year on, TA work, late shifts at the campus coffee shop. None of it was Moretti money.

My airfare was already paid. This was enough to get me through until the research job started paying me.

I tucked the debit card into my jacket's inner pocket, where I could check it was still there, and stretched out on the mattress.

Five days to go.

Mom would soon have the space for Grace's paintings. After that, no one would have to work around my presence again.